


Purr

by Dawn_Blossom



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Amnesia, Animal Traits, Catboy Grima, Curses, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25998247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawn_Blossom/pseuds/Dawn_Blossom
Summary: Grima awakens at the Dragon's Table, but finds himself cursed. His memories of being a tactician are gone, his power is inaccessible to him, and... he's got magical cat ears and a tail that respond to his every emotion.Forced to lie low until he can break the curse, he might just find that he doesn't want to destroy the world after all.
Relationships: Chrom/Gimurei | Grima, Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin
Comments: 15
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote about 60% of this fic between January and February 2019, and the rest of it in the last 4 days... I am HOPING that this does not negatively affect the quality. My mind is a little too busy going "mmmmMMMM catboy grima" to objectively judge ^^;;;
> 
> Anyway, this is my 50th posted Chrom/Grima fic and I am pretty excited about it! I know I was having fun writing it, uh, last year (I was tweeting about it lol) and I certainly had fun these past 4 days, so... I hope you'll enjoy reading it!

Grima isn’t sure what happened.

All he knows is that he felt a horrible pain in his chest, and then he was suddenly on a battlefield. A man wielding Grima’s own magic in the form of a tome stared at him with horror, and before either of them could speak, a sword was stuck into the man’s chest.

Grima missed a lot, it seems. Three decades of living in this body gone, though he supposes it is nothing to the thousands of years of memories he _can_ recall.

The Shepherds are surprised at his memory loss. Apparently, it is not the first time; he met them originally with naught but the vague memory of escaping an attack. Grima supposes he has no reason to doubt their story. Humans are prone to senseless violence.

It’s strange, though. On a superficial level, he knows them. He remembers their names, but he does not know anything else about them.

Not even the man with Naga’s brand. The man who, based on the ring on his finger, appears to have married Grima.

Or, well, “Robin.” That’s what everyone calls him. He isn’t fool enough to inform them that he is the Fell Dragon. Not when his memory loss is the least of his troubles.

His ears twitch. Specifically, the pair of triangular, feline ears atop his head twitch. Behind him, a feline tail begins to bristle.

There is no taguel blood in his veins, so this should not be possible.

Worse even than this, however, is that he can no longer access his innate power. It is not _gone,_ he knows, for he can still feel it within him. But he cannot channel it, not through his own hands and not even through the facilitative aid of a tome. He assumes his skill with a blade is still intact, though the strange new additions to his body will no doubt force him to retrain.

It’s a curse, the sorcerer called Henry claims. But he cannot dispel it.

None of them can figure out the particulars of the curse, much less how to break it. This is fortunate for them, and for Chrom especially. Grima’s current incapacity is the only reason that Naga’s branded is still alive. Naga’s hero, her sword, and her shield are all right here. Grima could destroy Chrom, the Falchion, and the Fire Emblem in one fell swoop… if only he were not in this wretched condition.

As it is, he finds himself heading back to Ylisstol at Chrom’s side. Validar is dead, all wars have concluded, and nobody but Grima knows that the Fell Dragon is waiting for the right opportunity to strike. As far as Chrom is concerned, the world is at peace.

Which explains why he turns so readily to Grima.

“Robin, I swear,” he says, “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but I’ll do whatever it takes to help you. I suppose you don’t remember, but… You’re my other half, and I would do anything for you. So just… know that I’ll always be at your side whenever you need me, whatever it is you may need of me.”

His words might comfort a true amnesiac. But to Grima, they are worthless. He will not trust a human, especially not _this_ one. One careless move, and Grima will surely find himself at the end of the Falchion again. The thought fills him with rage; now that he is awake and free at last, he will not allow anything to seal him away again. Naga’s grip on the world must be severed, her threat to him removed. And so Chrom must die, as soon as Grima can see the action through. But in the meantime, Grima needs to keep an eye on him.

“Maybe my memories will return if I stick close to you,” he says, though he expects nothing of the sort to happen. “You know, if we do all the things we normally would.”

“We’ll try it,” Chrom agrees. He does not look completely confident, but he still flashes Grima a smile.

Grima quickly turns away. It disgusts him to see that expression. He knows what Chrom cares about—getting his marriage partner back—and he figures it will not take long for him to realize the futility of that hope. At that point, Grima will probably be forced out of Ylisstol. Thus, it is of utmost importance that he recover his power soon. Once Chrom is out of the picture, he can take his time planning his next moves. 

Though he tries to keep his eyes on the road ahead of him, he nevertheless finds himself stealing glance after glance of the Falchion. It looks a bit different from the one he remembers, a fact that seems obvious when considering that only the blade itself is impervious to being damaged. And oh, he remembers that exact blade. Forged by Naga to destroy her own kind, it is a cruel weapon. The agony it brings is like no other earthly feeling. 

And it is right next to him. He cannot _help_ but stare at it.

“Are you alright?” Chrom asks, for at this rate it was inevitable that he would catch Grima’s gaze. “Er, you’re…” He gestures to Grima’s body. “Shaking.”

“I’m not,” Grima says, though when he looks down at his hands, he realizes that he _is,_ indeed, shaking.

“You’re _not_ alright?” Chrom asks, drawing the only reasonable conclusion from that statement under the circumstances. “Okay… We can—”

“No,” Grima interrupts. “I meant that I’m not as weak as you think I am.”

He has power beyond anything a human can imagine. He just can’t use it at the moment.

“I’ve seen you go through worse,” Chrom says. “That’s not the point. We can ease your suffering. If you want to stop and rest, maybe eat, even sleep if you want… Robin, I’ll give the order right now. I just want to help you.”

Grima mentally scoffs. Short of throwing himself into the deepest depths of the sea (such that the Falchion and Fire Emblem could never be recovered), there’s nothing Chrom can do to help him.

“I would rather keep marching on,” Grima says. “The sooner we get back to Ylisstol, the better.”

The castle will have resources. Chrom will no doubt be horribly busy dealing with the death of the late king of Plegia, and Grima, who cares nothing for human politics, will be free to work on unsealing his power. He does not know why it was sealed, and that is the biggest obstacle. Once he understands the cause, it should be simple enough to take some potion or get some sage or sorcerer to assist him with their magic. 

Chrom gazes at him intensely.

“Fine…” he says after a moment. “I would like to get home as soon as possible, as well. Though we’ll have to break within the next few hours, regardless. There’s a town ahead—”

“Which was recently attacked by brigands, leaving them with a shortage of supplies. They’ll give us shelter, but we’ll have to rely on our own rations,” Grima says. Immediately, he frowns. “I don’t know where that came from…”

“We stopped there on the way to Plegia, as well,” Chrom says. “I must say, I’m glad you haven’t forgotten _everything._ Do you remember being my tactician? You’re a bit of a genius at strategy, actually.”

Well, of course he is. He is the Fell Dragon; his mind is vastly superior to the other, lowly creatures of the world. 

Chrom chuckles, though he quickly smothers it with his hand. At Grima’s glare, he waves his other hand in apology.

“Sorry, it’s just…” He glances behind Grima. “Your tail seems to be responsive to your feelings.”

Grima follows Chrom’s gaze. The white tail sprouting from his skin is loosely curled in pleasure.

Grima recoils. This affliction is worse than he thought if he cannot control his extra appendages. 

He can feel the ears on his head draw back, responding to his horror. This, too, is against his will.

Chrom chuckles again. The hand over his mouth does nothing to obfuscate the sound.

Of course he would laugh. Grima is pathetic and powerless. Dependent, at least for the time being, on his pity. Humans just love to flaunt their power, never mind that they are but worms to the great and powerful Fell Dragon.

… But he’s weaker than a worm right now. And so he cannot wipe the laughter from Chrom’s face. Not yet. But he will not forget this. Soon, he will be the one laughing as Chrom’s fragile human body is crushed beneath him like an insect.

“Ah… But I really am sorry,” Chrom says once his laughter has subsided. “I can’t even begin to imagine how strange this must feel to you. Memory loss is one thing, but who would want to curse someone to have the appearance of a feline taguel?”

Grima scowls. It is far worse than that. As far as he is aware, the taguel have control over their entire bodies. They can also bring out their beast forms in battle. And they are more powerful than humans. 

Grima would far prefer being trapped as a taguel to the hell he is currently experiencing. 

Though… Haven’t most of the taguel been slaughtered by human hunters?

He blinks as the thought occurs to him. It is yet another fact he does not remember learning, but he is glad to know it. It is one more threat he must consider. He appears half-beast, and perhaps some despicable hunter or another would desire his head because of it.

It is just one more reason that he must stick close to Chrom. Few would dare to trespass on the Exalt’s home to attack one of his men.

“A single ‘taguel’ without memory would have a target on their back,” he mutters aloud. “Fortunate, then, that I was not alone.”

Chrom’s eyes widen in horror; apparently the implications are only now occurring to him.

“Don’t worry,” he says. A flash of anger passes over his countenance. “You’ll never be alone.”

He sounds sincere enough that Grima, were he anyone else, might trust in his words.

Of course, Grima knows better, Humans make meaningless promises. And he, the Fell Dragon, is always truly alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Grima almost asks for a new room.

Chrom and Robin were married. Ergo, they shared a bed. And Grima has no desire to sleep next to the one man who could force Grima back into darkness for another thousand years. Chrom always sleeps with the Falchion in reach. Grima noticed when they were on the road, but obviously the habit continues even in his own castle. It’s disconcerting for Grima, but sensible for Chrom to do. Threats do not respect circadian rhythms; if anything, they abuse them.

But Grima quickly decides that sleeping next to Chrom is his best option. Sleeping next to his enemy is difficult. Sleeping with his enemy nowhere in sight would be impossible.

It is far from a pleasant ordeal. 

The first night, Chrom brushes a hand through Grima’s hair, and Grima instinctively hisses, baring his teeth like a threatened animal. The fur on his ears and tail bristles, and Chrom backs down immediately, but Grima doesn’t like the look in his eyes, as though _he_ were the wounded one.

“I’m only here because the curse puts me at risk of attack,” Grima growls. “Don’t get comfortable.”

Of course, this is Chrom’s bedroom; if there is anywhere in the world he _should_ feel comfortable, it is here. (And yet he has invited the Fell Dragon in. He is ignorant of how precarious his peace truly is).

“Sorry,” Chrom says after a pause. “I’m but a stranger to you, aren’t I?”

He flashes Grima a smile, then stands up, taking a few steps back.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “I, er, have some reports that need my immediate attention.”

“About what happened at the Dragon’s Table,” Grima guesses.

“Among other things.” Chrom sighs. “Truth be told, I always have late nights. The only reason the Council hasn’t sequestered me away with them is because I insisted it was necessary for your health that we retire together.” He smiles thinly. “I know you’re worried. But believe me, the two of us have quite the reputation. No one in their right might would choose to attack us, and even if something _does_ happen…” His expression darkens. “The assailant would have to go through me.”

Grima rakes his gaze up and down Chrom’s body. There is no doubt that he is powerful and well-trained. His defeat of Validar speaks well enough to that, though Grima can also appreciate his physical form. He certainly would not like to fight Chrom at close range. A distant magical attack would be preferable… Which makes it all the more important for Grima to recover his powers swiftly.

“I suppose this is where we say goodnight, then.” Grima would prefer for Chrom to fall asleep first, but there is no good way to say this. Besides, he reminds himself, Chrom doesn’t know he has a reason to want to kill Grima in his sleep.

“Yes,” Chrom agrees. “Sleep well.”

Chrom takes his place at his desk, while Grima lies down on the Exalt’s bed and tries to ignore his trepidation. It should not be so difficult to fall asleep. The sheets are soft and the covers exquisitely warm; the Exalt lives in the lap of luxury, after all. The faint light of the candle at Chrom’s desk is not enough to pierce his eyelids when he closes them. There is no sound but the wind outside the window and the faint scratching of Chrom’s pen… and his own breathing, which is perhaps the largest distraction.

He has never been in quite this state before. Even at his weakest, he has always had his scales, his thick dragonhide, his teeth and his claws… Even the very cruelest of the humans could do nothing to touch him… Until Naga gave them the tools. 

Some divine ruler she is, to grant another people the power to destroy her own.

That is perhaps what he hates most about her. She chose humans over dragons. She saw the flaws in her own species, yet she could not see the flaws in humanity. She truly wanted the humans to rule the world. She would not even fight him herself, instead bestowing her power upon some so-called hero. Grima was destroying too many of the precious little creatures for her taste. As though they weren’t doing the same thing to themselves? 

Frankly, Naga was lucky the ungrateful worms didn’t turn that blade right back on her.

In the end, though, Naga got everything she wanted. Humans run the world. They treat it as though it is their birthright, as though they didn’t wrest control of it from the dragonkin and the beastkin, as though the price of their reign wasn’t paid in blood. They are nothing but ungrateful.

But soon, Grima will balance the scales of justice. Grima will take the Falchion and the Fire Emblem, and no human will ever lay their hands upon them again. He will eradicate every trace of the past. A world as wrong as this one should not exist.

Soon. It will happen very soon. He will not dwell on why it cannot be _now._

Eventually, he finds himself falling asleep to the image of Naga herself burning alive, a pleasant construction of his imagination. 

He does not wake the next morning until the sun has already risen in the sky. He is not in the same position as when he drifted off; at some point in the night, he shifted from the side of the bed towards the middle, and he now rests half-curled in the very center of the structure.

Chrom is nowhere in sight. At least, he isn’t until Grima turns over. Chrom is still at his desk, but he is fast asleep.

Grima doesn’t understand. When he approaches, he can see that the candle on Chrom’s desk still stands tall. It was blown out; it did not burn out. 

“Do you always sleep in this terrible position?” Grima asks. It would be good to know whether he can expect Chrom’s muscles to be in poorer shape in the mornings. Grima is not too proud to exploit weaknesses.

But Chrom does not answer, does not even stir. So he’s a sound sleeper. Also good to know.

“How much does it take to wake you up?” Grima wonders aloud. He moves his hand towards Chrom’s shoulder to shake him awake, but his fingers have barely brushed his skin when Chrom’s eyes fly open.

“Robin?” Chrom stands up quickly. “You… Oh, right…”

“Oh, right?” Grima echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry,” Chrom says. “It’s been a while since I’ve woken up to you like that… Hah, did you know your eyes have turned red?”

“My eyes are red,” Grima says. “I have never known them to be any other color.”

His tail sweeps restlessly behind him.

“Er… Right.” Chrom blinks uncomfortably, but Grima has no sympathy when he himself is the worst off of anyone in this castle. “Well, then… Shall we change and go down and eat? I don’t know if your tastes have been affected by the curse, but I’m sure we must have something. Something more delicious than our travel-appropriate dried meat, anyway.”

“The dried meat was fine,” Grima mutters. He has no memory of Ylissean cuisine, and yet he is absolutely certain that he would find a pairing of bread and sweet berries to be _much_ more pleasing.

And that is exactly what the servants present him with at breakfast. At this point, Grima is no longer surprised by the knowledge that occasionally just comes to him. His experience of living as a human is not lost to him; it is only the narrative that is gone. He feels as though he is a character without a story, a person who exists but has never done anything... It is just as well, though; the Fell Dragon is enough of a legend to overshadow whatever “Robin” may have done. Still, perhaps he can recover those memories; there are plenty of simple rituals to remember forgotten things. But it obviously isn’t his priority. Once he restores his power, he can live with the other inconveniences, even the ears that suddenly move forward the second he catches the scent of his food. Even the tail the flicks every time he takes a bite..

… Even the purring coming from his throat. It doesn’t stop when he swallows or speaks; it is induced by magic and not his physical body. It’s an irritating noise, but not as irritating as the laugh that comes out of Chrom’s mouth.

“So that works too, hmm?” he mocks. “I’m no scholar, but I must admit the particulars of this curse fascinate me…”

“I’ll be sure to explain the details as soon as I work them out myself,” Grima mutters. It may be the last thing Chrom ever hears, though.

“We’ve got all our best minds on the case,” Chrom says, smiling. “Miriel has been in a fervor from the second she saw you. Tharja and Henry are poring over every dark magic book known to mankind. And Lissa, Maribelle and Libra are all willing to lend you their services, although we can only hope you won’t need them as medics. I, unfortunately, have not a single ounce of magical ability, but I can—”

“Why are you all doing this?” Grima interrupts. At Chrom’s confused glance, he continues. “This curse doesn’t concern you. And why squander all your labor on one task? If I can’t figure it out myself, I doubt the rest of you will make a difference. And while I have nothing better to do right now than read books and test theories, you have _jobs_ to do, do you not?”

“Duties aside,” Chrom says. “You’re one of our dearest friends. We have no problem spending every spare moment to help you. You… would have done the same for us.”

Ah. Grima understands now. They miss the man he no longer is, the man that gave them aid during their years of war. They think they can bring him back.

They do not know that, even if he does recover the missing memories, his soul will always be that of the Fell Dragon.

His tail sweeps against the ground.

“Well, _I_ have a problem with that arrangement,” he says. “I remember magic. I do not remember anything but the names of your Shepherds. I have no desire to work with them when I can do the same things for myself.”

Chrom frowns pensively.

“I… see,” he says after a moment. “I… understand. I cannot and will not tell anyone to stop trying. But I will inform them to… leave you some space. Is that acceptable enough?”

“What about you?” Grima asks. “Where will you be?”

Chrom grits his teeth.

“You’re quick as always,” he mutters. “But I have already sworn to protect you. I won’t break my vow.”

“Then I won’t ask you to,” Grima says. “I’ll accept your assistance if you insist. But nobody else’s.”

He will have to keep an eye on Chrom. He certainly can’t risk him finding out the truth. A curse at the Dragon’s Table, while fighting the leader of the Grimleal? The connection to the Fell Dragon is obvious, and Grima needs to ensure that Chrom does not make it.

“That’s fine, then,” Chrom says. His eyes are strangely full of warmth. “I’ll make sure we aren’t disturbed.”

“Good,” Grima says.

His ears twitch warily as he holds Chrom’s gaze. He does not know what the Exalt is planning, but he knows perfectly well that soft expressions can conceal the hardest of hearts.


	3. Chapter 3

Chrom wasn’t kidding about making sure they would be alone.

He sets up a private room for them, for as the Exalt he has plenty of space to spare and plenty of guards to keep everyone away without good cause. He has an extensive library and the ability to get more books from almost anywhere (at least on the continent; Plegia is annexed and Ferox is an ally.)

A man as powerful and Chrom could easily have gotten some servants to read all the materials for him, too. But for some reason, Chrom has decided he must go through every page of every book by hand. They spend day after day like this, but Grima finds human knowledge inferior to his own, and Chrom, well… Chrom clearly stopped learning about magic as soon as his childhood tutors allowed him to.

“Is there any chance that the curse was put on you with a time delay?” Chrom asks, placing a finger on the page in front of him.

Grima looks up from his own book, then tosses it aside. Its title seemed promising, but he can already tell from the table of contents that it will be useless to him.

“No. I’m sure that isn’t it,” he says. “Magic activated after a time delay also tends to weaken over time. This curse is as strong as it ever was. It’s more likely that the spell was merely cast out of sight.”

“Ah.” Chrom turns the page. “Of course. I should have read further ahead.”

Grima watches as Chrom closes the book on time-delay curses and picks up a new one. It seems incredibly pointless to him. Chrom cannot possibly gain enough expertise to be of any help at all. Not in weeks, not in months, and probably not in any less than two decades of constant study.

“You realize you don’t have to do this,” he points out. “Just because we are in here together and I am studying curses doesn’t mean that you have any reason to study curses as well. Don’t you have, ah, paperwork or something?”

“Actually, I’m quite on top of that,” Chrom says. “Surprisingly, perhaps.”

“It’s not that surprising,” Grima counters. “Clearly it’s because you stay up writing until the early morning.”

Every night, Grima falls asleep in Chrom’s bed, and every morning, he finds Chrom asleep at his desk. He does not know why Chrom refuses to delegate the work when it is eating up so much of his time.

“In any case,” he continues. “It isn’t very productive for you to do menial work here. Rulers have important matters to attend to, do they not?”

“This _is_ important,” Chrom says firmly, his expression suddenly hardening. “Even if there’s nothing I can do for you… I want to be by your side.”

“... Why?” Grima asks. He does not understand the tension that has come over Chrom. “Afraid of how I’ll behave if you’re not watching me?”

Chrom blinks.

“Robin, of all the things I fear…” He shakes his head. “Gods, no. That doesn’t even make the list.”

It should. Even without knowing of Grima’s ultimate plan, at the very least Chrom should be worried that the amnesiac king loose in the castle could offend some foreign dignitary he no longer remembers. Grima could start a war. That isn’t even a far-fetched concern. It’s so _easy_ to start wars between groups of selfish idiots; it’s like humans are just _looking_ for excuses to go at each other’s throats.

“I can’t live with myself if I don’t share your difficulties with you,” Chrom continues more gently. “I failed you once, but I won’t do it again…”

“Failed me?” Well, _this_ is interesting. “How so?”

Chrom looks down.

“I failed to protect you from this, didn’t I?”

An awkward silence hangs between them. Grima doesn’t know how to respond. Human weakness is a far cry from betrayal in his eyes. Really, a curse powerful enough to affect _Grima_ could not be stopped by a mere human. But Grima is used to humans, _especially_ royalty, failing to accept fault for things they are responsible for, not the reverse situation.

“Besides,” Chrom says before Grima gets a chance to sort out his confusion. “I may not know much about magic, but there are certain fundamentals that all magic has in common, right? Curses give life to the dreams of their casters. So the question is… Who would dream up this nightmare for you?”

Grima pauses, his thoughts taking a new direction.

“That’s actually a fair point,” he says. “I’ve been focusing on how to break the curse. I didn’t think it mattered _who_ did it, but…” He studies Chrom’s face, sees the guilt and resolve… Perhaps the man might not be completely useless to him. “You would know about that more than me, wouldn’t you? You know what I was like, what would have made me a target, who would have known what about me.”

Chrom looks up with dawning understanding.

“We could split our focuses,” Grima continues. “You’re never going to be able to dispel this curse, but you might be able to locate the perpetrator.”

“It could be anyone in Plegia,” Chrom mutters. “I think they universally despise the both of us in particular at this point. And I’m sure that there are plenty who would side with Plegia if it meant hurting Yisse.”

“But you have the resources to investigate,” Grima says.

“Yes…” Chrom agrees. “Though I do not want to create too much of a stir. I do not want to spark more bloodshed…”

“We just got out of a war with Plegia, right?” Grima does not regret forgetting it.

“We just got out of our _second_ war with Plegia.” Chrom grimaces. “Third in my lifetime, actually. My father started one, too.”

“I see…” Grima frowns. “Ylisse was the aggressor?”

“We…” Chrom hesitates. “It’s a complicated story.”

Grima doubts it. _Someone_ struck the first blow.

“Perhaps I should read up on your history,” he says. “I don’t remember much of it, or of Plegia’s history, either. Though strangely, I think I can name the last ten reigning khans of Ferox.”

“Scholarship hasn’t got much on our war with Gangrel yet, and even less on the one with Validar,” Chrom says. “You’re probably best off reading your own notes taken during their courses.”

“Oh. Of course.” Any good tactician would have taken detailed notes.

“I’ll give you mine, too,” Chrom says. “Mine have more information on you, if you’re looking for it. Or, if you’re not… Well, I think your records are perfectly objective.”

“I’ll read them in my spare time,” Grima says. His stomach churns uneasily at the thought of reading Chrom’s account of Robin. Was Grima’s other self manipulating the game of war? Or was he just another pawn drawn into a conflict that did not belong to him?

“Hey.” Suddenly, Chrom places a hand on Grima’s arm.

“What?” Grima feels his ears twitch upwards. He hadn’t realized they’d been down.

“I think we’ve both done enough reading for today,” Chrom says. “We should... do something else. I don’t think it’s good for either of us to stay as cooped up as we’ve been lately.”

Grima frowns.

“We haven’t done anything,” he says. “Not today. Not once since we started. If anything, we should be doubling down for the rest of the afternoon.”

Chrom shakes his head.

“We did something today,” he insists. “We formed a better strategy. You deal with the magic while I deal with the people. That’s progress. Gods, a strategy is more progress than we sometimes made in _months_ of war.”

“Endless fighting doesn’t take a lot of thought,” Grima mutters. And he may never fight again if he doesn’t undo this curse. He can still feel his power within him, but it is locked away to where he cannot channel it. He hates it. How dare anyone deprive him of what belongs to him?

Chrom squeezes his arm lightly, and Grima is drawn out of his thoughts.

“Would you like to do that now?” Chrom asks. “Fight, I mean. Spar. With me.” He smiles. “I know you mentioned training to regain your bearings.”

“Right… I said that…” Grima knows, realistically, that he had better start practicing, or else he really _will_ have to hope Chrom can defend him in a fight. But if he could just figure out how to break the curse, it wouldn’t matter. He’d have his magic back, he wouldn’t have to worry about stumbling over a tail, he wouldn’t be a monstrosity even in this human body, the world would never know what hit it until it was too late… 

“It might be good to, er, not think,” Chrom says. “For a short while, at least.”

Grima almost says no. Humans may enjoy “not thinking,” but _he_ is not such a fool. Chrom seems so benign, so unlike the humans Grima is used to dealing with, that it would be so easy to accidentally lower his guard. But that is exactly when humans strike.

“It’s worth a try,” is what he actually says. He knows how to be cautious, how to avoid showing more weakness than his unfortunate condition has already forced him to reveal. But in the end, he cannot pass up the chance to learn more of _Chrom’s_ weaknesses. It will be all the easier to dispose of Chrom later if they spar now, he convinces himself.

He just wishes that Chrom’s expression wasn’t so disconcertingly full of charm.


	4. Chapter 4

Sparring with Chrom is perhaps the most enjoyable thing Grima has done since waking up in this body.

It doesn’t start that way. In fact, it starts with a _humiliating_ screech coming from Grima’s mouth the second he sees Chrom coming towards him with the Falchion—a replica, and not even the right color, but still utterly terrifying to Grima’s basic instincts.

But his body jumps out of the way on those instincts, quicker and farther than a human should be able to move (though far inferior to what he could do if he still had wings).

Chrom halts, not even trying to hide his surprise.

Grima supposes not every feline trait is undesirable.

“You startled me,” he explains. He wishes his tail would not quiver as it does. It is bad enough that his heart beats too quickly, that he breathes too heavily. He does not need his emotions advertised, especially in the middle of battle. The enemy should always feel that you have more control than them.

“Right, sorry,” Chrom says. There is no pity in his expression, but it must surely lurk in his mind, because he continues, raising up his sword. “How about you come at me, then?”

Grima hates that sword. It does not matter to him that it is not the Falchion, that it has never seen his blood, that it was not forged from any part of Naga and has no dragonslaying power. It looks very similar to the blade it was modelled after; it was probably specially forged so the Exalt could practice without bringing out the real heirloom. But the fact is, Grima will never be able to forget the moment Naga’s champion plunged the damned thing into his flesh.

He should not be afraid of a sword wielded by a mere human. But he cannot stop the fear that grips him, cannot stop the echoes of an agony that stretched beyond just the physical realm.

He hates the Falchion. He hates its replica. He hates that he trembles when he thinks of it coming near him. But though he hates this weakness, he is glad to know of it. He is glad that Chrom wants to spar using that damnable copy. Just as he will get used to the new weight on his head and back, he will get used to this feeling. He will train until his weakness is eradicated. And then, when the time comes for them to truly battle, not even the sight of the real Falchion will make Grima falter.

It becomes part of their routine. Cursebreaking in the morning, sparring in the afternoon. Though Grima continues to make little ground regarding the former, he does see some benefit from his training. Grima may be weak to swords that look like divine blades, but Chrom has his own weaknesses. He favors one side of his body over the other. He favors offense and leaves himself open to counterattacks. He’s terrible at obscuring his next move, even though he tries.

… He breaks his training swords. A lot. Be it the hilt or the blade itself, Grima has counted no fewer than four broken weapons during the relatively short period that he and Chrom have been training.

The latter is perhaps not such a terrible flaw. It occurs because he puts too much strength into his strikes, and it is not something he would have to worry about when using the unbreakable Falchion.

It is perhaps a bit nonsensical, but Grima can’t help but feel a surge of vindictive delight every time another Falchion replica breaks. Oh, how he wishes he could shatter Naga’s fangs that easily!

So yes, perhaps he finds these sparring sessions _very_ enjoyable. It helps that Chrom is, despite his obvious faults, nevertheless a good fighter. It’s only because of the limitations of Grima’s vessel, of course, but sometimes Chrom manages to overpower him. The first time it happens, Grima is practically frozen; his tail bushes out uselessly, and he can do nothing but stare as Chrom… gives him back his sword.

That’s all Chrom ever does. He gives Grima back his sword. He smiles, too, and if Grima did not know better, he might forget that Chrom is dangerous beneath those shining eyes.

On the other hand, when Grima bests Chrom—and he does as often as he does not, at least once he learns to look at Chrom’s face instead of his sword—the man never growls or spits or even frowns. There is no indication that he finds the situation unpleasant at all. In fact, he often _laughs,_ especially if he loses because he has broken his weapon.

It isn’t until the day Grima breaks into a laugh at the sight of a bewildered Chrom with his sword stuck in a tree, that Grima realizes that he’s also… well, laughing.

It’s a shame, really, that he is the Fell Dragon and Chrom is of exalted blood. Chrom would make a good servant. Human though he is, Grima does not find him as despicable as he generally finds the species. Chrom does not delight in cruelty, he is avoiding rather than seeking justifications to go back to war, he bends to Grima’s will and does not demand… anything, actually.

It’s not that Grima trusts him. What idiot would truly believe any being, let alone a _human_ to be nothing but kind and selfless? It’s only that he is certain Chrom would obey him. Would even do it with a smile, probably.

At least, that could happen if Chrom were anyone else. But he and his bloodline are bound to Naga. No matter how tempting an idea it might seem, Grima cannot be fooled into sparing him.

And so Grima continues to spar with Chrom. It’s invigorating, it’s entertaining, and even Grima is not above smiling.

But he does not forget his goals. He watches Chrom for any showing of weakness, for anything Grima can use against him.

And yet, every time he looks into Chrom’s eyes, he cannot help but question whether what he is doing could be considered a betrayal.


	5. Chapter 5

It is impossible to forget that Chrom is the leader of a nation.

As much time as he spends working with Grima, he spends at least as much balancing his political duties. Much of his work gets done at night, though Grima does not understand how Chrom can possibly subsist on less sleep than _him._ But there are times, too, when Chrom slips away, only to return later with apologies and “politics,” as his only explanation.

Grima despises politics. “Politics” is a term humans use to obscure their true desires, to imbue their selfish whims with legitimacy so that they can get away with otherwise unjustifiable actions.

So truly, it is for the better that Chrom does not expect Grima to play a part of whatever foolishness the Exalt is himself subject to.

Yet, it is starting to make him angry. What do the Ylisseans talk about at their little meetings? What secrets might Chrom be keeping from him?

Thus, the next time Chrom informs him that an afternoon meeting will push their regular training off-schedule, Grima snaps.

“Am I allowed at these meetings?” he asks. “Or is an amnesiac curse victim just too _pathetic_ to bring along?”

“What?” Chrom blinks. “Are you… Are you saying that you want to come with me?”

His voice sounds strangely hopeful, but a second later, he grimaces.

“They haven’t seen you in a while,” he says. “Even before you lost your memories, I mean. The topic of discussion is always Plegia. And you’re, well…”

“Plegian,” Grima says coolly. Yes, of course. Humans never trust what is different from them. The Ylisseans do not know he is the Fell Dragon, but they certainly know he is not one of _them._

“Yes…” Chrom reluctantly agrees. “I… I’ve told you before that it shouldn’t matter. You’re our beloved tactician and king. The people know who has been keeping me alive all these years.”

He chuckles weakly. Grima is not impressed.

“It will not matter to them, Chrom,” he growls. “I know how people think!”

Slowly, Chrom sighs.

“I can’t ask you to go with me if you don’t want to,” Chrom says. “But... Now, in the aftermath of two terrible wars… Maybe it’s time for us all to remember that it was not just Ylisseans putting their lives at stake.”

“Oh, I am _going,_ ” Grima hisses. His cat ears flatten back. “Their ignorant assumptions about me will go unchecked if I do not.”

“It isn’t as though I would allow anyone to say a word against you,” Chrom says quickly. “But… It’s been a while since they’ve seen the exalt and the king stand together as one.”

There’s a certain excitement in Chrom’s expression. Grima does not understand.

“You expect my presence to make a difference?” He cannot see what Chrom is seeing here.

“Yes,” Chrom says. “You don’t realize how important you are.”

Grima nearly scoffs. He knows his place in the world; it is humans who inflate their own importance. He knows that, god or not, he cannot sway the hearts of people who have already determined who their enemies are. Chrom will be disappointed.

But Grima still attends the meeting, sitting at Chrom’s side. He is not here to change anything; he only wants to learn, to prepare himself for the future.

He doesn’t know who disgusts him more: the nobles who stare at him openly, or the ones who pretend they are doing no such thing. He knows their curiosity must be burning them. They have heard of his curse, perhaps seen him in passing, but they surely did not expect him to appear before them like this.

Though they must have questions, Chrom calls the meeting to order before they can so much as formulate a sentence.

“We are gathered here today to discuss Ylisse’s continued occupation of Plegia.” Chrom’s voice is firm and clear. “We are at the point where we must either withdraw our forces or send them more supplies. I would like to hear your thoughts.”

A man with broad shoulders and grizzled hair is the first to speak. He is the duke of Tethys, a territory to the north. Far away from the Plegian border, Grima notes.

“Your Grace, we should withdraw at once,” Duke Tethys says. “Our nation was just as ravaged by the war as theirs; we should focus on taking care of our own!”

“We’ve killed their reigning monarch _twice_ now,” a woman interjects. She is the Duchess of Metis to the south, as well as the oldest member of the Council. “We ought stay around long enough that we don’t make for a third time.”

“So we put up some puppet king and let him rule,” a younger woman says. She is the newly-named Duchess of Pyra, her father having recently died of illness and her older siblings having perished over the course of the Ylisse-Plegian wars. “I’m with Duke Tethys. We should wash our hands of this whole affair before we manage to shatter the fragile peace we _do_ have.”

“A puppet king? You think the Plegians aren’t smart enough to notice something like that?” the Duke of Japeth snaps. He has a newborn child due at the end of the month. “As if they don’t have reason enough to hate us already! We’ll have another war within three years!”

“Well, we can’t just leave them to their own devices! That’s how we got Validar!” Duchess Pyra snaps right back.

“So it’s war if we stay and war if we go?” a pale, thin man asks. He is the son of the Duchess of Styx, temporarily filling in for his mother as she attends to matters at home. He is a scholar and hasn’t been in a fight in his life. “We’d be better off passing them off to Ferox as ‘payment.’ Let it be their problem.”

“Ferox?” Duke Tethys exclaims. “Have you gone mad? The last thing we need is the dark mages and the barbarians teaming up!”

“And just what do you mean by that?” The Duchess of Asteria, whose mother is Feroxi, stands up.

“We’ll be a laughingstock to the Feroxi if we can’t handle our own problems!” Duchess Pyra interrupts. “You know how they prize honor!”

“Plegia is everyone’s problem,” Duke Japeth insists.

The Council continues to argue amongst themselves, with more and more nobles joining their voices to the cacophony. Grima feels a wave of contempt rise like nausea inside him. He turns toward Chrom, who is actually _scowling._ It is an expression Grima is not used to seeing on the man’s face, and his cat ears twitch in surprise.

The movement draws Chrom’s attention, and when he looks at Grima, his expression smooths out into something more neutral.

“Well, Robin?” he asks quietly, though even his normal speaking volume would likely be inaudible amidst the Council’s heated argument. “What do you think about all this?”

Grima opens his mouth to tell him _exactly_ what he thinks of Ylisse’s so-called nobility, but the second he does, an animalistic growl escapes his throat. The sound, a threat from a predator, carries over the voices of the Council, and they begin turning their attention to him.

He can see the looks they wear. They are just now questioning what beast they have let into their midst.

“Has it occurred to any of you…” His voice strains. “To consider the best interests of Plegia? That perhaps they would not seek to harm you if they had any reason to trust you? But no, you are satisfied to let another people be destroyed so long as it does not inconvenience _you._ ”

This is not news to him. He _knows_ how humans are. The Plegians are no doubt the same, and he does not speak now for _their_ benefit. Their country may have been built to worship him, and he will admit in some ways he is surprised that he still has faithful followers in this era (of course, it is easier to worship a god who isn’t around), but he will still destroy them someday all the same. He only speaks out of principle, out of his burning hated for humanity’s ways, out of a desire that they be forced to _hear_ him. He will not change their minds. He knows any attempt he should make will fail. Humans stand rigid in their ways even when the course of truth should carry them down another path. They are like boulders blocking a river. What can Grima do but destroy them?

The Council does not like hearing his words, though they cannot yell at Grima the way they do at each other, not when they are all concerned with arbitrary things like rank and authority. If they were not cowards, they would insult him to his face; he knows that in their hearts they hate him. But they are quiet and still, mere worms frightened of being crushed under the weight of something greater than them.

But then, finally, the silence is broken by a young man, the Duke of Perses. This is his first meeting.

“Milord…” he says hesitantly, addressing Grima directly. “You’re the heir to their last king, aren’t you?”

Grima pauses. Validar, of course, was the leader of Grima’s followers, the carrier of Grima’s blood. The flesh Grima now inhabits was derived from the man. To humans, that is significant.

“I mean, couldn’t _you_ do something about it?” Duke Perses continues.

Oh.

“So you can blame me when it all goes wrong?” Grima’s words come out in a growl, half-human and half-animal. This is what always happens. He is not even a god in their eyes and _still_ they expect him to solve their problems, to deliver them success or to be their scapegoat, depending.

His ears flatten back. A moment later, Chrom stands up.

“I think there is too much to consider for us to come to a decision today,” he says. “I will authorize a shipment of supplies to our men in Plegia, but only enough for a few more months. We will, of course, reconvene soon to evaluate our further actions. Is anyone opposed?”

No one objects. It is time for the meeting to conclude anyway; the Council wasted plenty of their own time talking over each other. Nevertheless, they look at Grima, undoubtedly holding him responsible for their failure to exercise basic cooperative ability. As he and Chrom leave, he glances back, just long enough to see Duchess Asteria leaning in to whisper to Duchess Metis. Their eyes flicker to him, and he turns away.

They are deceivers, liars. And he is powerless to stop them in this accursed form.

“Er, Robin… We should probably talk…” Chrom starts.

But Grima is not in the mood to speak more of so-called _politics._ His throat rumbles, the unbidden purr only angering him further. He decides, thus, to walk away without another word. Chrom surely understands what seething fury means.


	6. Chapter 6

Chrom, apparently, does not have the sense to keep away from a raging monster

.The sheer number of shredded training dummies should be enough warning. Grima cannot satisfy himself this way; the destruction of inanimate objects may lessen the pressure of the fury inside him, but it does not address the problem—the humans get off scot-free for their treachery.

Chrom, however, is a human. He could bleed a little for his kind’s sins.

Grima almost considers taking a swing. Not enough to kill, obviously, and not even enough to need medical attention. Just a light scratch, enough to draw a little blood. It could be an accident; after all, the fool is approaching him in the middle of a frenzy.

“Robin… I’m sorry” Chrom’s voice comes from behind him, and Grima hesitates. “For what it’s worth, I agree with your position. Plegia has suffered fighting the same wars we have. Perhaps even more so than we have. Whatever happens going forward, I want the Plegian people to be able to live… no, _thrive,_ in a peaceful world.”

Too much time has passed for Grima to excuse an attack. He sheathes his sword.

“Your people can’t see past their own noses,” he says through clenched teeth. “They can’t even agree with each other. It is not Ylisse they care for, but their own self-interest.”

Chrom sighs.

“And what is a nation’s interest but the good of its people?” he asks. “I think it’s clear that we all want an end to all the fighting. Figuring out how to achieve such a goal is what’s proving difficult.”

Grima scoffs, turning around to meet Chrom’s gaze.

“You think anyone in this world wants peace?” he asks. “Everyone wants to come out on top, that’s all.”

“I want peace,” he says. He pauses before continuing. “Emmeryn… wanted peace.”

Emmeryn. The previous Exalt. Her assassination on orders from the Plegian crown caused the war, Grima has read. She was Chrom’s sister.

Grima laughs incredulously.

“So you fought for a decade in her name.” Chrom’s talk of peace is transparent now. “Oh, don’t pretend that wasn’t the reason. It felt good, didn’t it? Seeing those bastards bleed out like she did…”

“You…” Chrom grits his teeth. “You really don’t remember, do you? You wouldn’t be saying these things if you did.”

“Is this a shock to you?” Grima scoffs. “Or did you forget I’m not really the man you used to know. Perhaps you’d like to forget, but the truth is that I never will be. Even if I got back those old memories… Well, things have changed a lot, haven’t they?”

“You were still there with me,” Chrom says. “Robin, you were with me through all of it. You saw… You fought for peace with me. It had to be done. They weren’t going to stop with my sister; they were after the Fire Emblem! “

“Oh, don’t misunderstand,” Grima says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m not judging you. But listen to yourself. ‘It had to be done.’ Why? Because you wanted to keep the Fire Emblem. Because Plegia wanted to take it. It’s nothing but a fancy shield without all the gems, anyway! Your war was more worthwhile if you say it was for your sister.”

“Is this how you’ve always felt?” Chrom’s eyes blaze with anger. Grima likes the look, likes the raw honesty found in negative emotions.

“How should I know?” Grima lowers his hands. “It’s how I feel now. Everyone is a hypocrite, and peace makes a beautiful excuse.”

He watches as Chrom takes a haggard breath, and he suddenly has an idea. Smirking, he draws his sword again.

“Fight me, Chrom,” he says. “With full strength, none of our usual politeness. We are angry at each other, are we not?”

“I don’t think that’s going to help anything,” Chrom says, narrowing his eyes.

“Well of course it won’t,” Grima agrees. “But I’ve run out of training dummies.”

Chrom regards the ground around him.

“Besides, you know you want to shut me up,” Grima taunts.

Chrom stares at Grima, his brows furrowing. After several seconds, he draws a sword of his own—a rapier, not the Falchion, but it is very much a real weapon. Fortunate, because the silver sword in Grima’s hands is no mere training sword.

Grima does not wait for Chrom to make a move; he goes in directly for a close attack. He is not as angry at Chrom as he is at the Council, not really, but as the Exalt, Chrom _should_ take responsibility for them. He will take all the blame for every problem the country faces, even if it is the nobility’s incompetence that truly caused it. Of course, that is what rulers get for being rulers. They demand subservience, and if they become too complacent to control their own people, well, that’s their own fault.

Except… It isn’t as though Chrom became a king by conquest…

“You never wanted to be the Exalt, did you?” Grima realizes. Of course. It’s obvious now. It’s why he doesn’t parade himself around like all the other damnable royalty Grima has known. It’s why, if things were different, Grima might spare him, might let him run away and live a quieter life somewhere else.

Chrom parries Grima’s blade. The sound of the clashing swords rings out, but it doesn’t muffle Grima’s words.

“No, I didn’t.” Chrom’s response is perfectly clear as well, though Grima has to jump back to avoid a blow from the rapier.

“But the world demands you play the part,” Grima says. He perhaps should have stayed farther away; Chrom has the advantage at close range. He feints, hoping to jump back and put more distance between them. In this body, with his strange feline instincts, he should play up his agility. “Perhaps you did not like being called selfish, then. Since you are being asked to perform a task you wish you weren’t.”

“I have a duty to my country above everything else,” Chrom says. He does not fall for the trick. Grima suspects that he has somewhat of an unfair advantage, having fought next to Robin for so many years, while Grima does not have all of Chrom’s physical tells memorized. “Anyone would do the same in my position.”

They would not. Grima has seen both power-hungry and cowardly leaders. Chrom is like neither. 

“You have another sister. She could take over for you,” Grima says. “You could leave behind your sword and all your troubles.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. Chrom renouncing his title would not renounce Naga’s blood. It isn’t as though Grima could really let him go off somewhere on his own. And keeping Chrom with him is even more out of the question. But there is something deep inside him that insists on imagining… If Grima just explained himself the right way, explained how peace could not exist in a world run by humans, he could sway Chrom to his side. Chrom has no reason to cling to a life he never asked for…

“And let my loved ones take up my sword and troubles in my stead?” Chrom gives a particularly powerful jab. “I could not. I would never abandon my country, my people, my friends and family…”

He meets Grima’s eyes with a gaze more piercing than his blade. Grima dodges left, but falters.

He does not intentionally trip Chrom. He does not intentionally follow the man down, either, but somehow he finds himself on his knees, sword still firmly in his hand.

Chrom’s rapier is on the ground behind him. This makes Grima the victor, but Chrom does not smile at him. Rather, his face contorts into a pained grimace.

“I didn’t even hit you,” Grima says, confused.

“Gah… Sorry…” Chrom rolls over slightly, shifting himself onto one leg. “I landed poorly, that’s all.”

“Let me see,” Grima says. He extends a hand towards Chrom’s leg, but Chrom intercepts it before he can so much as graze the fabric of his clothing.

“Don’t.” Chrom is suddenly no longer interested in looking into Grima’s eyes. “Don’t bother. It’s an old injury.”

“How old?” Grima frowns. Could this be Chrom’s big weakness?

“… Ten years.” Chrom is still grimacing.

“So it’s from the war,” Grima figures.

“Yes…” Chrom closes his eyes. “It’s from the moment just before Emmeryn… Well... The assassins tried to take me out first, but I survived. I survived, but… I couldn’t protect Emm... .” He lets out a miserable chuckle. “I guess I lied to you. I _would_ abandon my family.”

Grima frowns. 

“Not willingly,” he specifies.

“Not willingly,” Chrom agrees.

Grima gets to his feet. Though he isn’t sure it’s necessary, he offers his hand to Chrom, that the man might find it easier to pull himself up.

“Fate’s dealt you an unfortunate hand,” he says. 

“Perhaps it’s not the best,” Chrom says as he takes Grima’s hand. “But I would not curse Lady Fortune so quickly.”

“No?” Chrom’s hand is warm against Grima’s.

“I found you lying in a field,” Chrom says. “I might have spent all my luck that day.”

Chrom squeezes his hand gently before pulling away. Grima doesn't know how to respond, not when Chrom has no idea of the irony of his words. 

Hatred bubbles up inside him again, for human lies are not the only untruths he abhors. The future he is planning tastes more and more of bitter deceit by the day.


	7. Chapter 7

It is just past midnight on a particularly cold night that Grima puts the pieces of Chrom’s personality together and realizes that the Exalt of Ylisse is, in fact, an utter idiot.

Grima is just waking from a dream, a terrible memory of darkness and rot, when he notices that Chrom has already fallen asleep at his desk. Everything is just as usual; his papers are stacked towards the back, his candle has been properly blown out, his head is pillowed on his arms…

It’s all too carefully done. Chrom did not fall asleep after too long a night. Oh, sure, he did his work—but there was not much to do tonight, just some standard authorizations to sign. Tonight, and every night, he is choosing to sleep this way. And not because it is comfortable—Chrom is leaning slightly to his side, his _bad_ side.

Grima can’t stop thinking about Chrom’s deep blue eyes, the way he spoke about not abandoning his _family,_ and the wedding ring resting on Grima’s finger. It is obvious now that Chrom thinks he is providing a service to him, but it is a service that Grima did not _ask_ for.

He opens his mouth and a low growl comes out, his cat ears lowering. He tries again, and this time he places a hand against Chrom’s shoulder, perhaps more forcefully than strictly necessary.

“Wake up,” he hisses.

As if on command, Chrom’s eyes fly open.

“Robin?” Chrom is already standing up. “What’s wrong?”

“You,” Grima says.

Chrom blinks, perhaps thinking he misunderstood. He looks around the room, but upon seeing no danger, relaxes slightly.

Grima crosses his arms. Behind him, his tail lashes. He still loathes the thing, loathes how he has no control over it, but at least this way he is sure that Chrom is aware of his irritation.

“I don’t need your protection anymore,” he says. “My skills with a sword are better than ever, and _I_ don’t have an old injury to be exploited. I know what you think you’re doing, but it’s just a waste of time. Go to _bed,_ Chrom.”

Chrom glances towards the bed, which is certainly big enough for both of them, and could probably fit at least two more people as well.

“You wouldn’t mind?” he asks.

“Why would I?” Grima rolls his eyes. “It’s _your_ bed, after all.”

“Because you were uncomfortable when we first came back,” Chrom says. “I was worried if I touched you…”

He raises his hand to the top of Grima’s head. Slowly, he runs his fingers through a few strands. When he brushes up against the fur of one of the feline ears, Grima’s breath catches, and a purr rises to his throat.

Fortunately, it’s probably too dark for Chrom to see him flush.

“I can’t control it,” he says. “Don’t use it against me.”

Chrom’s warm hand feels wonderful in his fur, and it’s a distraction. A weakness. Chrom could take advantage of it, sneak up on him, debilitate him… and Grima would probably still purr against his will.

“I wouldn’t,” Chrom says. “I won’t.”

Humans are liars by nature; they can’t seem to resist the urge to make promises they have no intention of keeping. Grima knows better than to trust one. But Chrom has been such pleasing company; he has never had a more devoted servant, even when he had literal servants at his beck and call. They are alike, pawns to fate and doomed by circumstance. It is not as though the situation between them can grow worse. A betrayal is inevitable. Grima will do it if Chrom does not. And so it does not seem so horrible to trust a human just this once, when it’s only Chrom.

Grima tilts his head slightly, allowing Chrom’s hands to brush against his fur again.

“Now that you know your touch isn’t toxic to me,” Grima says, “you’ll sleep normally, won’t you?”

“Alright,” Chrom says.

He removes his hand from Grima’s head. Grima’s purring does not immediately stop, however. If anything, he is even more pleased for Chrom’s easy acquiescence, and the tip of his tail flicks with satisfaction.

Chrom’s expression haunts him even as he returns to bed and closes his eyes. Once, he thought that smile was a mocking response to Grima’s weakness. Now, though… He’s seen Chrom wear that look too often to still believe that he is laughing at him.

He blinks open his eyes just long enough to catch a glimpse of Chrom on the other side of bed, his breath already evening out. His muscles are probably crying out their relief now that he is blanketed in the softness he is used to… Or, perhaps, _not_ used to, seeing as leading a decade-long war could not have left much time for lounging. In any case, the normal tension he bears is not apparent. Seeing him like this, Grima is inclined to smile himself, and it is certainly not because Chrom is weak in this moment. He can’t explain the feeling. Perhaps it is just the satisfaction of having a private understanding, a knowledge not shared with the world at large.

Chrom must have had many such understandings with Robin… His tactician and husband…

Were it any other human, Grima would suspect his other self was manipulated. “Robin” was an amnesiac too, and Grima supposes the memories liberated from his mind are the very ones that Grima recalls with painful clarity. It isn’t as though Grima _wants_ humanity to be deceitful and cruel; it is his experience that informs him of those qualities. Without those memories, how could Robin avoid playing right into the humans’ hands, just like Grima did thousands of years ago?

But… Ten years, and Robin was still at Chrom’s side. A curse, lost memory, and “Robin” has still not been pushed aside. Now, the Council he would never trust… Chrom had said even Robin had avoided the fools; it doesn’t take thousands of years to learn what it means to be an outsider. And Grima cares nothing for Chrom’s talk of peace; such a thing can never be had. But his cause was just enough; Plegia came after the former exalt for no reason but greed. If Grima were not the fell dragon or did not know, and if he could not trace the history of human treachery, he could see himself lending his power to Chrom.

And so Robin had.

An ache rises in Grima’s chest. He is hesitant to give the feeling a name, for it is rather nonsensical. But it is jealousy—jealousy of a former self, and a fragment at that. He had lived among humans and did not suffer for it, a feat that Grima could never accomplish before.

Slowly, he begins drifting into sleep, but the feeling continuously plagues him. How can he prefer ignorance to the truth? He is as bad as a human.

Maybe he should have been one.


	8. Chapter 8

Chom’s royal duties aside, most of his time is still spent deep in research with Grima.

“Have you found any leads on suspects?” Grima asks. His own research has not taken him far. There are memory curses, and transformation curses, and sealing curses. There are no documented memory-transformation-sealing curses.

“Well, I thought to look into people who have some connection with cats, as that is a rather unusual thing to incorporate into a curse,” Chrom says. “Unfortunately, it turns out that cats are highly magical and commonly accompany magic users, especially dark mages. There are at least fifteen fairly powerful sorcerers who loudly proclaim feline associations, and that’s just within Plegia alone. Most were involved in the war for at least a time. Some have already fled the country.”

“Hmm…” It would take more than powerful magic; the castor would also have to have a strong desire to land the curse in order for something so complicated to stick. “That doesn’t tell us much of anything.”

“I know…” Chrom grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Are any of them Grimleal?” Grima asks. Validar was not just the king of Plegia; he commanded the Grimleal. Perhaps one of them is responsible. An organized group could more easily come up with a multilayered curse.

“Technically, every Plegian is Grimleal,” Chrom says, frowning. “According to official records, anyway. Determining anyone’s actual practice is a bit more difficult. Although…”

“Yes?” Grima prompts when Chrom seems to be spending too much time in thought.

“Aversa… Validar’s right hand…” Chrom says. “We don’t know where she is.”

“What?” Grima is surprised at the oversight. “You didn’t hunt her down? She could lead a new strike against you.”

“I had more important things on my mind,” Chrom snaps. “I’m well aware of the implications!”

Grima stares. Chrom has not gotten angry with him since the time he insulted Chrom’s motivations. It’s a shame he doesn’t have the chance to draw more of it out in a sparring match again; Chrom’s ire is almost entrancing.

Chrom huffs a sigh.

“And legally, she’s Validar’s daughter, too,” he says. “Your sister...”

“Oh?” He had not considered that Validar might have other relations. If Aversa is his sister, she should know his importance to the Grimleal. It makes her an unlikely culprit, but… “I need you to bring her to me. I don’t believe she cursed me, but she could be dangerous.”

In truth, Grima isn’t entirely sure how he feels about the Grimleal. Yes, they ensured that his bloodline continued, that he had a vessel to reincarnate into. But he is not their god, not really. Worshipping him for a thousand years shows surprising dedication for their species, but Grima does not feel bound to the country just because they offer sacrifices in his name. He is perfectly capable of providing for himself; he does not need their aid. And they do not have any cause for Grima to fight for.

Despite this, he would still like to speak to Aversa. Plegia may be more or less in shambles at the moment, but that only makes it _more_ likely that the Grimleal will turn against him for his failure to save them… And if Aversa indeed knows just what was awakened during the war’s final battle… 

Grima’s tail sweeps against the floor.

“We’ll find her,” Chrom promises. “If she hurts anyone because of me, I... “

Chrom’s expression twists into a grimace.

“Because of you?” Grima’s ears twitch. “What did you do?”

“You’re right that I shouldn’t have let her escape,” Chrom says. “At the very least, she should have been with us at Plegia’s surrender. But that whole time… I didn’t care. All I could think about was bringing you home.”

“Hmm…” Grima’s ears twitch again. “It sounds more like _I’m_ to blame.”

He doesn’t mean it as an accusation, but Chrom seems to take it as one.

“No,” Chrom says quickly. “It wasn’t your fault. You never wanted any of this.”

“What, and you did?” Grima scoffs. “Letting the woman go was short-sighted, but it wasn’t malicious. Do you know all the sickening things you, Plegia’s conqueror, could have done? You could have demanded her head on a platter. Or paraded her around for your entertainment. Made her countrymen watch as you abused her just to rub your victory in their faces. Any of those actions would have made me loathe you. But a lapse in judgment? That is not so ignoble. I would rather have an occasional fool than a tyrant.”

“... I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be comfort or criticism,” Chrom says, blinking.

“It’s merely the truth,” Grima says. “Take it as you will.”

Chrom offers him a small smile.

“Thank you,” he says. “I think I know what you mean… ‘Occasional fool’ though I may be.”

Grima smiles thinly in return. Humans do not take so kindly to criticism, but Chrom does not seem to mind it. It is a good quality. Part of what makes humans so utterly corrupt is their refusal to even acknowledge their flaws. And a world so shrouded in a cloud of ignorance and lies does not even merit existence…

He wishes everyone were more like Chrom. Grima could better accept humanity’s faults if they expressed any willingness to change.

… But he should know better. Humans have never changed, not at their core. Perhaps they cannot. It is in their nature to be this way, just as it is his nature to bring destruction in his wake.

Does one decent man change any of that? Does one good apple redeem a decaying tree?

Chrom’s hand comes to rest on Grima’s shoulder. Grima’s heart thumps rapidly against his chest. His tail thumps once against the ground.

It hurts. But what can Grima do? It will always be him against the humans. If Chrom knew who he was dealing with, he would stick that sword right into Grima’s beating heart. Because no matter what qualities Grima might appreciate in the man, he is still a human, and Grima cannot imagine that his duty to the other humans he calls his people would ever let him side with the Fell Dragon, even if he didn’t have Naga’s damned blood.

Grima wishes that he had never been cursed, for he then would never have known Chrom and would feel none of these painful emotions over him.

Yet painful as they are, he cannot help but indulge them. He brings his hand up to rest over Chrom’s, his fingers slipping through the spaces between Chrom’s own.

For a moment, they are both quiet. But eventually, Chrom brings himself to speak.

“Now that I’ve said my part… Are we going to do more research today?” He draws his hand away, but Grima does not let go, instead allowing his own hand to be dragged back. Chrom does not force a separation.

Chrom smiles while Grima considers the question, but it is not a difficult one to answer.

They haven’t gotten anything done. If they continue at this rate, it may take another thousand years for Grima to break the curse.

But...

“No,” he says. “I’m not much in the mood for that right now.”

Grima isn’t truly in danger at the moment, even without his power. What’s one more fruitless day? There are plenty of other duties around the castle to attend to, anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

“What do you mean you have to spend time planning a _festival?_ ” Grima exclaims. “Is this really the time?”

Normally, he and Chrom have pleasant if not altogether _important_ conversations over breakfast. Normally, neither of them blindside the other with new information like this.

It is clear from Chrom’s expression that he did not expect this to be a surprise to Grima.

“According to the calendar, yes…” Chrom says. “Er, in a month, I mean. We do need a little time to make preparations.”

“Why can’t you have the castle staff do it?” Grima demands. “There have been other holidays since you’ve returned to Ylisstol, but you didn’t have to prepare for those yourself!”

“Because nobody cares about feasting holidays so long as they get fed,” Chrom says. “But this festival… It honors the dead. And with it being the first one since the war has ended…”

“You have a lot of dead to honor.” Grima looks down, gritting his teeth. Chrom’s point makes sense, given the human preoccupation with idolizing their fallen. Chrom will look like a monster if he doesn’t give them all a spectacular eulogy at this festival… Moreover, he will probably _feel_ like a monster, as much as it pains him to have taken his country to war in the first place.

Still, despite all reason, Grima is frustrated.

“So what you’re saying is, I’ll have to do without you until you sort this holiday thing out,” he mutters. It isn’t as though he can’t continue his work on his own. He might even get _more_ done without Chrom there to distract him. Chrom has already sent out scouts to search for Aversa, or anyone else who might have significant ties to the Grimleal. Until news comes back from them, all Grima can do is try to figure out ways of breaking the curse, which Chrom is no help with. So he shouldn’t care that Chrom will have to cut back on that. Really, this is excellent timing. But…

The ears on top of his head draw back. Chrom frowns.

“Actually…” Chrom says. “Er, if it wouldn’t take up too much of your time… I was hoping you would help me.”

Grima blinks.

“I don’t actually remember anything about this festival,” he points out. He assumes that his past self found it significant. It’s only significant memories that Grima is unable to recall. Of course, Robin was leading the war next to Chrom. Could it be that, like Chrom… he would have mourned for those killed? They’re just a bunch of faceless, nameless fighters to him, their identities well and truly lost to Grima now. But in a way, he was responsible for them… 

“As you may be aware, finer details aren't my strong suit,” Chrom says, smiling thinly. “I think just having you near me would improve the overall quality of this festival… But I don’t want to burden you, either. I understand if you can’t spare—”

“It’s fine,” Grima interrupts. “Perhaps I can be of some use in the preparations.”

The way Chrom smiles makes Grima’s pulse quicken. It’s too soft. Too weak. He’ll be eaten alive with a smile like that. Those fools at the Council cannot be allowed to see it.

“Thank you, Robin.”

Grima’s traitorous tail twitches happily. This is nothing to be happy about. It will be a lot of work and no one will thank him for it except Chrom.

His tail does not cease its activity.

In truth, the preparations do not come easily to him. He does not feel sorrow for the great loss of life, but he would surely not have any trouble with a mass funeral, were that what was going to occur. But this festival is supposed to the dead, so as to honor who they were while alive… and how, exactly, is Grima supposed to praise the creatures he so despises?

Chrom is even more troubled, though obviously for different reasons. The more Grima thinks about it, the more he is sure that there is nothing he could say that would not be hypocrisy from the mouth of the one who commanded that these lives be spent.

“I wish that I knew how to reach them,” Chrom says. “If only Emm were here… If only I knew how to be…”

“Don’t,” Grima interrupts. “Don’t even try. If you attempt to act like someone you are not, then everyone will see you are insincere.”

“Right…” Chrom sighs.

Damn it. Chrom looks so sad that it’s driving Grima up the wall. But what is Grima supposed to do about it?

“You could simply… not do this,” Grima says. “Say we don’t have the resources…”

“We have the resources,” Chrom says flatly.

“You cannot go out there and dissolve into guilt!” Grima exclaims. “Right now, you are as much a hero as you are a villain! Whatever you say, you must say it as though you have never believed anything more. People do not want self-conscious leaders! Humanity does not want to have to reflect!”

“I have already seen my sister hated by the people for things she did not do,” Chrom says. “Tell me, what hope do I have of avoiding their ire for things I actually have done?”

“It doesn’t matter if they hate you,” Grima says. “Any of them would have done the same thing in your position. Probably worse. Indeed, who is to say that their dead fellows were innocent, that they joined the war for your sake and not simply to satisfy their own grudges? Chrom, there is no way that they are not far bloodthirstier than you. So you cannot apologize. And for the sake of those lost lives that somehow were innocent, you cannot do anything as stupid as thanking them, either.”

“Then what is left?” Chrom asks. 

“Just…” Grima’s tail swishes in annoyance. He has just thought of the perfect speech for Chrom, though it is not to his own taste. “Talk about your love for them. If they cannot see that it is true, the fault lies with them. When you talk about your duty towards them, even I am forced to recognize that you mean every word.”

“And you think that will be enough?” Chrom does not exactly sound hopeful, but at least he has stopped sounding so empty.

Grima almost purrs against his will, but he covers it quickly with a cough.

“As I told you, it doesn’t matter if they hate you. You are actually trying to better the world, even if it is a doomed task, and even if no one ever thanks you. If anyone hates you, it is a sign of their own ignorance. What do they know about you?” Grima says. “… I do not hate you.”

Chrom is silent, appearing to consider Grima’s words. This is just as well, for Grima himself is reeling at his own admission.

Of course he has known that his feelings for Chrom have been softening for some time, and that he holds more pity than hatred for the exalt. But saying it aloud, he realizes… there is not a drop of hatred in him for the man. 

It doesn’t make any sense. Chrom isn’t _innocent._ Grima could do a lot to make him suffer personally and it would be deserved. Chrom would probably even agree with him. It would be one thing for Grima to hate him less than anyone else, less than the willfully cruel and the carelessly callous, but to feel no hatred at all…?

When was the last time he felt this way? A thousand years ago, back before the humans he didn’t hate betrayed him?

Should he be feeling like this? The only reason Chrom isn’t trying to stab him right now is because he doesn’t know Grima’s true identity. Grima keeps reminding himself of this, and yet…

Even if Chrom were to discover the ruse and turn the Falchion against him, Grima still doesn’t think he would hate the man. This time, Grima is the despicable traitor, so if Chrom wants revenge, it will be deserved.

But right now, Chrom is looking at him incredibly softly.

“Robin, it is always your strength getting me through,” he says. “If you believe in me, then I too can believe.”

“I believe you are the best leader your country could ask for,” Grima says honestly. “I believe that the people here do not deserve you, and that they will try to hurt you. But if you are not dissuaded, if you still insist on dedicating yourself to them… I believe there is nothing anyone else could do better than you.”

Another purr rises unbidden to his throat, too powerful to even attempt cover. Grima hates the way the curse deprives him of all control of his own expressions.

But it makes Chrom smile, and somehow, that makes Grima’s anger tremble and flee.


	10. Chapter 10

The festival comes and goes without disaster.

The crowd cheers for Chrom when he speaks, though Grima doubts the words truly reach their hearts. But at least Chrom does not bungle the delivery. He speaks his own truth into the world, and the humans do not burn him for it.

This time.

Of course, this is Ylisstol, where the people love the royal family most. There are surely places where Chrom’s words would not have been quite as welcomed. And that is to speak only of Ylisse. In the Plegian capital, it is said that the Plegian citizens and Ylissean soldiers spent the day of the festival tensely watching each other, each fearful of a move neither could actually afford to make.

Something has to be done. Everyone knows things cannot continue as they are.

The Council members continue to argue amongst themselves. Grima is not sure why he keeps attending their meetings. He spends most of his time thinking of ways he could secretly kill them, and the rest of it monitoring Chrom. He’s gotten good enough to predict the exact second that Chrom’s temper will flare. Pity no one else can read the room.

“I’m just going to order everyone back home,” Chrom says, gritting his teeth as he blocks Grima’s blow. Their sparring practices start going for longer and longer as the Council becomes more and more unbearable. “And if anybody doesn’t like it, they can do the honorable thing and challenge me to a duel one-on-one; we’ll see who knows more about military tactics!”

Grima backs away, laughing.

“I’d like to see it!” he says. “Who could ever dream of beating you, besides me?”

Even with Chrom’s lasting injuries weakening him, it would take a better fighter than any they have in Ylisstol to win against him. And moreover, one-on-one duel or not… Grima never said anything about being honorable himself.

Chrom shakes his head, sheathing his blade. Apparently, his fury has run its course.

“I know last time we ended up with the leader of the Grimleal as king,” he says. “And he tried to bring back the Fell Dragon to destroy us all. But as we’re rather certain that can’t happen again, I can’t see why it wouldn’t be better for the Plegian people to decide what to do for themselves.”

Plegia could easily end up being run by someone much worse than Validar, but Grima doesn’t bother to argue the point. He is certain that Chrom will offer aid in setting up the new regime. If the Plegian people pledge themselves to a terrible ruler, that is none of Grima’s concern. Let the matter stay out of his hands.

Plenty of other trouble comes directly to his hands. 

Grima doesn’t get much mail delivered directly to him… Especially not by suspicious deliverymen who then disappear from the castle within the hour. After determining there are no traces of poison or magic, he opens the letter addressed only to _The High Deliverer._

_We need to talk. Meet me outside the castle tomorrow night, unless you’d rather I sneak inside._

It is signed by _The Dark One._

Grima keeps the note on him for a while, wondering if he should tell Chrom about it. First, he is tempted to. Then, he curses himself for the thought. He doesn’t need Chrom’s protection! But then he questions himself again. If the matter turns out to concern Chrom, it will not look good if Grima has been sneaking around.

In the end, he keeps quiet. The Dark One wrote to him specifically… Why would they need him, Robin, the King of Ylisse? Or did they mean to write to him, Grima, the Fell Dragon?

If Chrom is going to figure him out, it is not going to be over a stupid note!

The next day he slips away, the hood of his coat shrouding his face and cloaking him in the darkness of nightfall.

He doesn’t have far to walk before he catches sight of a similarly hooded figure. The figure does not move, even as Grima approaches.

“Show yourself,” he hisses beneath his breath, ready to draw his sword at an instant's notice.

The figure lets out a dark chuckle and throws off the hood.

It is a woman. Her hair, almost as white as his own, reflects the moonlight.

“Aversa…”

He recognizes her, of course. They fought on a few occasions, and she was obviously not important enough to him for him to forget. But she is a much more important figure now.

“We’ve been looking for you,” he says.

She giggles, running a hand through her hair… flirtatiously? Grima could slit her throat!

“Milord, I don’t even know you,” she says. 

Angrily, Grima pulls down his hood. 

“As if you didn’t invite me here, you—”

But Aversa is no longer laughing. Her gaze is fixed upon the feline appendages atop his head, her mouth open in shock.

“You weren’t expecting this?” Grima asks, a furious hiss bursting out of him.

“I had heard rumors, but…” Aversa glances away. “I didn’t think much of them.”

“Then you didn’t do this…”

It isn’t a question. Grima can tell from her demeanor that her surprise is genuine.

“I would not have. I know what Validar wanted,” Aversa says. “I was loyal because he tricked me… but loyalty is loyalty.”

“He tricked you?” Grima can feel his tail bristling beneath his coat.

“I was more grateful to him for taking me in before I learned he slaughtered everyone who had ever known me beforehand,” she says, grimacing.

“Glad we killed him,” Grima mutters.

He supposes that settles the matter of how he should feel about the late leader of the Grimleal. Human crimes do not sicken him less because they were committed by his followers.

“He never expected to survive,” Aversa says. “Not for much longer, anyway.”

She looks at Grima expectantly. When he meets her gaze with a questioning look, she chuckles.

“I can tell you’re… different,” she says. “But I can’t tell if it’s because you were cursed, or…”

Grima’s tail twitches uneasily. This is exactly why he had to tuck it beneath his coat.

“If I told you that Validar got what he wanted, would you do anything stupid?” he asks.

Aversa steps back as if by instinct.

“Are you asking me if I value my life?” she asks. “... There’s no one in Plegia who wouldn’t bow down to you.”

With him standing in front of them with a weapon, that is surely true. In the privacy of their homes, Grima is not so deluded as to believe they do not abhor him every bit as much as he abhors them.

“Is this all you came for?” he asks. “To find out if you should be groveling to me or not?”

“If I was planning to ask anything else, obviously I’ve had a change of heart,” Aversa says. “I do value my life, my lord.”

“Very well,” Grima says.

He quickly throws his hood back over his head. He has no choice; he can feel his cat ears beginning to droop.

“I don’t suppose you know who cast this curse upon me?” he continues. “Or how to break it?”

“No,” Aversa says. “None of my associates would have dared. Unless something went wrong with the array meant to feed you power… but that would have been more likely to leave you with wings and horns…”

“Then you’re useless to me.” Grima sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to tell Chrom we can stop looking for you… I don’t know if that’s good news or bad. Honestly, I was expecting you to say more about the Plegian crown; now THAT would have helped us…”

“The Exalt is working for you?” Aversa asks. Seeming to realize that she has just interrupted the Fell Dragon, she appends a weak “my lord.”

“He doesn’t know who I am.” Grima’s ears flatten, not that Aversa can see them. “No one knows. So if anyone finds out…”

Aversa shivers, and not from the night air.

“Understood,” she says. “Is there anything else you would have me do?”

Grima shakes his head.

“I do not care,” he says. “You do not have to serve me because Validar did. Now that I am here, what good are the Grimleal? I do not need a mass of crawling worshippers at my feet. Be grateful that I am allowing you to leave this meeting unharmed, and in return, do not waste whatever time you have left.”

Even he isn’t sure how much time that is. He does not know how long it will take him to break his curse, and then… Well, if he’s going to destroy the world, he can do it at his leisure. Why start on this continent at all? He’s heard that there’s a conqueror across the sea who claims to hate the gods, though it seems there is quite a lot of frustration among the people he has conquered. It might be fun to stir that pot. Grima has a grudge against the last conqueror of Valm, but this new one could bear it in Alm’s stead.

By the time he gets around to dealing with Plegia, perhaps several centuries will have passed. What does it matter to Grima?

“My lord is most gracious…” Aversa says. 

Her confusion is evident, but Grima has better things to do than explain himself to her. The Grimleal surely have not accurately described him in their literature, but that is not his fault, and he will not correct it.

Getting back to the castle comes as a relief. Frustrated from his fruitless conversation, he is too tired to protest when Chrom takes one look at him and ushers him off to their bedroom.

“Did something happen?” Chrom asks. “You look…”

Grima knows how he looks.

“Like a bedraggled cat,” he mutters.

“I was going to say ‘upset,’” Chrom says. 

He puts a hand on Grima’s back, seemingly without thought, and Grima doesn’t even bother to pretend it doesn’t make him purr.

“I had a meeting,” Grima says. “You know how I feel about those.”

“Ah.” Chrom nods. “Who with?”

“Aversa,” Grima says casually. It doesn’t have to be a big deal unless he makes it one.

“Yes, I suppose that—” Chrom suddenly stops, spluttering. “What? You found her?”

“It wasn’t worth the time we spent looking,” Grima says. “She doesn't know anything helpful. She’s no threat to us, either. It seems that Validar was less of a father to her and more of a kidnapper. She won’t fight for his ideals anymore; I guarantee it.”

“I see…” Chrom sighs. “So we still aren’t any closer to figuring out this curse.”

“It seems not,” Grima agrees.

“Right…” Chrom places a hand on Grima’s head, right between the cat ears. “I promise… I will work harder. For you.”

Grima stares into Chrom’s eyes. Why does he always sound so sincere? If he just wants his husband back, he need not say “for you” as though he cares about what Grima feels… as if he _only_ cares about what Grima feels.

Chrom’s eyes, deep and warm, are just too much to keep looking at. Grima follows the irresistible impulse to screw his eyes shut.

He supposes he is lucky that cats do not cry, or else he would not be able to suppress the urge to do exactly that, as well.


	11. Chapter 11

With both his and Chrom’s efforts leading to nothing, Grima decides it is time for him to read the journals his past self wrote.

It is only good sense. If they are looking for who cursed him, his own recordings may offer insight. Since it is obvious that Grima cannot quickly deal with the problem, a strategic deep dive into his former thoughts is the smartest next step.

It is… somewhat difficult to go through.

He didn’t just make a record of battles and mealtimes. Rather, he has written volumes and volumes of personal details about the Shepherds, their daily lives, and their individual stories. It almost no longer matters that Grima cannot remember much about the people who used to be important to him; reading these journals is like getting to know them all over again.

Worse than that is the fact that, if one follows the details like a narrative, it practically reads as a romance novel. Other characters and adventures weave in and out of the writing, but Chrom is the thread that holds everything together.

_I met a man called Chrom,_ the journals begin. Chrom this, Chrom that, what Chrom wants, what Chrom needs, Chrom’s orders, Chrom’s thoughts, Chrom’s insecurities and how Robin would do anything to ease them. There is an entire volume dedicated solely to describing every detail of the wedding preparations, as well as the event itself. Then, like a bookend, the final text concludes with _Chrom and I will end this,_ Chrom being his focus to the very last second.

Grima would think himself blinded by affection, but every word and action attributed to Chrom in the journals is exactly what Grima would expect from the man he knows. 

Yes, he believes the records are accurate… But ultimately, they tell him very little about who could have hurt him. The only thing he can conclude with certainty is that... this version of himself must have loved Chrom above all else.

The understanding comes like a punch to the gut. Being aware that he had married Chrom is not the same as reading his own words and discovering the true extent of the devotion between him and this one human being.

Chrom is with him even now, scouring yet more lists of powerful mages and their last known whereabouts. Realizing that Grima is staring at him, he puts his work down.

“Anything?” he asks.

“I…” There’s more than he knows how to say, actually. But nothing relevant to the curse. “I haven’t read yours yet.”

What will he find in Chrom’s journals? What if Chrom has never been as devoted as him? What if he has always been?

“They’re not as extensive as yours, and some parts may ramble.” Chrom smiles. “But who knows, maybe I noted something helpful somewhere. I think you’ll find that I was always watching you.”

And Chrom isn’t kidding. Grima is ready to be let down by Chrom’s human mind, but in fact, Chrom may be the more devoted one.

In contrast to Grima’s notes about everyone else, Chrom’s focus on his own day-to-day activities. But looking at it, you would think his life revolved around Robin.

Sure, he doesn’t always express himself eloquently. One page has only _I LOVE ROBIN???_ scrawled at the top, followed by numerous scribbles crossed out so many times that Grima can only guess that they were supposed to be confessions based on the contents of the next full entry.

But in fact, even if Chrom had never called it love, his unwavering dedication still would have been clear.

Grima closes the last of Chrom’s books with an uneasy feeling. What kind of sick joke is fate playing on him? This kind of bond… it was all Grima ever wanted before he learned that he could never have it! With how faithless, cruel, and uncaring humans are, he should never have been able to have it! How could he actually find a bond like this and not remember it? 

Or is it fortunate that he cannot remember it anymore? He reminds himself one more time that everything will be over the moment he reveals himself to be the Fell Dragon. Whatever used to exist between them is long gone. Grima is just stringing Chrom along now.

It isn’t any worse than what the humans did to him long ago.

… It’s exactly what the humans did to him long ago.

“Damn it!” A low growl escapes him. 

Chrom, alarmed, hurries to his side. 

“It’s nothing you can do anything about,” Grima snaps before Chrom can get a word in. “I… I wish that this had never happened!”

Forget the curse, he wishes he, the Fell Dragon, had never happened! Humanity is bound to destroy itself someday anyway! Why did Grima have to be part of it?

“I wish I could have lived a normal life with you, with everyone!” he continues. “But I… I’ll never be able to…”

It’s his own fault. He took the worst of the humans’ own tactics and thought to show them true fear, to return what was done to him tenfold, to show them how much of a monster he could really be, if they wanted it so much. He went down in their history as a legend. He did everything he set out to do except actually finish destroying the damn place, and he has the chance to finish the job now. But what good is any of it? He’d give it all up just to be Robin and have even one true friend among the Shepherds… let alone the bonds he actually had with all of them, and with Chrom above all!

Suddenly, Grima finds himself enveloped in powerful arms.

“Robin, I’m sorry,” Chrom says softly. “I’m so, so sorry. If I could have taken the curse for you, I would have. But you can’t give up. No magic can best the two of us.”

He raises a hand to the base of one of the fluffy ears atop Grima’s head. The resulting purr comes immediately.

Grima grimaces.

“What happened to not using this against me?” he asks. “You cannot manipulate me into happiness by just messing around with my fur!”

Chrom frowns, removing his hand.

“I’m sorry… That was never my intention,” he says. “I have heard that cats’ purrs have healing properties. I have no magic of my own, but if I could help you heal…”

Grima looks down.

“I don’t think this is ever going to heal, Chrom.”

He is not injured; he is the injury.

Still, now that Chrom has put his hand down, Grima finds that he wants it back. Terribly.

In the next instant, he makes a move that he has never thought of making before in his life.

“A-Ah,” Chrom gasps as Grima headbutts him in the chin.

“I didn’t do that on purpose!” Grima insists. His face feels as though it has been set on fire. He would rather it have actually been set on fire.

“I-I didn’t think it was intentional!” Chrom says. 

He rubs his fingers over his chin. Grima’s gaze locks on.

“Chrom…” Grima says through gritted teeth. “If you don’t put that hand back on my head, it’s going to happen again.”

“Huh?” Chrom glances between his hand and Grima, then understands. “Oh…”

He pets Grima gently. Grima goes back to purring. 

When Grima looks into Chrom’s eyes and gets a smile in response, it is once again too much, and Grima’s eyes close on their own.

“You can just tell me when to hold you, you know” Chrom murmurs. “I never know if I’m helping or not…”

Grima shakes his head. It is not Chrom’s touch that he wishes to avoid, but the consequences when it becomes unavailable to him.

“You fool…” he says softly. “I see now that everything you do is to help me…”


	12. Chapter 12

Grima has still not recovered his power. But for once, that is alright. His next plan would not work if he had it.

“And just why,” Tharja drawls, “do you need so much rainflower leaf? You don’t care for the tea.”

Grima scowls. He had assumed Tharja would not ask questions given the nature of her work.

“If I wanted it for tea, would I have come to you?” he shoots back.

“Is it for a poison?” Tharja asks. “I can make one for you…”

“Do you have what I need or not?” 

Grima is getting tired of this. If he told any of the Shepherds what he was planning to do, they would misunderstand. A potion to induce memory loss will only help him because his problems lie in what he has remembered, not what he has forgot.

“Fine…” Tharja gives him a sour look. “Only because you came to see me after all this time. Wouldn’t want to discourage you from doing it again. Someone like you, holing away… It never bodes well.”

Grima hums. She isn’t wrong… The Fell Dragon only lies in wait to bring suffering.

But soon he will not remember that. And with his power locked away, it will almost be as if the Fell Dragon does not walk the earth.

“Thank you,” he says to Tharja, and with the last of the ingredients gathered, he sets off to work.

If someone had told him a thousand years ago that he would willingly forget all that he is, he would have killed them for their insolence. But stuck in this powerless form, he has seen a different side. Humanity has not changed since he was last here, of that he is certain. But destroying the world would not rid it of their despicable nature; Grima would merely stand, inheritor of it all. What kind of god lets what he wants pass him by? And what he wants now, more than anything, is what he has already had as an amnesiac tactician.

“Well, then,” he says, raising his fresh cup of potion to the empty room. “Here’s hoping I’m not too confused when I wake up.”

Just as he brings the drink to his lips, the door opens in front of him in a burst of wood and magic.

“Robin, what the—” Tharja begins to say.

But Grima is quick, and the potion is already down his throat before Tharja has a chance to interfere.

“It wasn’t poison,” he quickly clarifies.

“I know; I watched you make it!” Tharja says, running to his side. “Your blasted husband is going to KILL me!”

“Ah… Chrom…” is all Grima manages to get out before his vision blurs.

Tharja catches him as he slumps forward, and then it all just fades to black.

He dreams in the void of unconsciousness. Some memory loss potion this is; visions of pain and despair play out in front of his eyes like a terrible play, but he cannot leave the theatre. 

Ha… What was he thinking? Even if he could forget all this, his soul will always be that of the Fell Dragon. Chrom would just be in more danger from him, a cat unaware of its own claws.

Grima wakes up curled in his usual spot in the bed.

“Robin!” Chrom exclaims. Grima does not know how long he has been hovering over him. “Are you okay? Do you… remember anything?”

Grima groans.

“Yes to both questions, Chrom,” he mutters. 

There is no way he would have made a simple potion incorrectly, so it probably failed as yet another side effect of the curse. Either that, or the only memories lost were so old that he does not realize they are gone. In truth, if he has forgotten anything from Thabes, no one will ever care.

“Did you think your old memories would come back if you knocked out your new ones?” Chrom asks. “What were you trying to do?”

Grima’s cat ears draw back at Chrom’s words.

“I think it’s obvious what I was trying to do,” Grima says. “I was trying to knock the memories out of my head, like you said. What are you mad about? It didn’t even work.”

“Yes, why would I be mad?” Chrom’s voice is bitter. “It’s your mind. If you want to forget everything about me twice, what can I do about it?”

Oh… Grima’s tail flicks uneasily. He realized before that no one would understand the truth, but only now is it ocurring to him that from anyone else’s perspective, this looks… somewhat insulting.

“Chrom, sit down,” he says, patting the bed next to him. “Let me… explain.”

His mind races as he tries to think of a good justification for trying to wipe his mind clean. But as Chrom sits, he turns to Grima with such a pained expression that Grima’s true thoughts come tumbling out of him.

“Don’t you want to be a happy couple again?” he asks. “If I could just… go back to a blank state… I thought…”

“What?” Chrom frowns.

“You’d fall in love with me again, wouldn’t you?” Grima asks.

“Huh?” Chrom shakes his head. “Robin, I… Yes, of COURSE I would. But I… don’t understand.”

Chrom holds his hand out, and Grima, unthinkingly, nuzzles into it. Taking it as an invitation to bring Grima closer, he shifts and pulls, and…

Well, Grima has to follow the cat instincts, doesn’t he?

“I love you as you are right now,” Chrom says to the purring mess in his lap. “And I loved you before, and I will love you if you forget about me again. But where did you get the idea that we cannot be happy together like this? I know this curse burdens you… But is it truly the worst thing? You give me strength, the same as you always have. And I… I am at your side, just as always.”

“Chrom…” Though Grima is still purring, his ears begin to droop. “Could you really accept me like this?”

“Oh, Robin…” Chrom runs both his hands through Grima’s hair. “I’ll accept you no matter what.”

“I want to believe you…” Grima says. “But…”

It’s easy for Chrom to say when he doesn’t know the creature he is cuddling is a demon. Grima will not hold him to his word on this one.

“Do you want to know what I was trying to forget?” he asks. “It wasn’t you… If there’s anything I want to remember in this world, it’s you.”

“What did you want to forget?” Chrom asks.

Grima is not certain that Chrom will not turn the Falchion against him for this. It is within reaching distance, like always. But Grima no longer fears its point.

If Chrom would truly pierce him, then there is nothing left for him in this world, regardless.

“Ah, you see…” Grima says. “Because of the curse, I lost my memories of being your tactician. But there at the Dragon’s Table, I also gained memories… of a time before that.”

“Your childhood?” Chrom asks.

Grima grimaces.

“No,” he says. “It was long, long ago… You do remember why Validar was at the Dragon’s Table, don’t you?”

“He thought he could bring back the Fell Dragon,” Chrom says. As comprehension dawns, his expression freezes. “No… It can’t be…”

“Yes… I am the Fell Dragon, Grima,” Grima says. Once, he might have announced it with majesty befitting a god. But right now, he is simply tired. “I have been since the moment I was born. Are you going to kill me, Chrom?”

The expression on Chrom’s face, between shock and horror, is not encouraging. 

Grima’s ears begin to droop again. The room is horribly silent without the sound of purring in the background.

Grima is expecting a stab wound any moment. He is not expecting a bone-crushing hug. He yelps, but Chrom does not let him go.

“G-Grima? Grima…” Chrom murmurs. “Perhaps things would be different if you had said this with a blade to my neck, but like this? In bed with me, recovering from collapse because you were trying to forget… wait, THIS is what you were trying to forget?”

“Yes…” 

The way Chrom has phrased it, Grima sounds pathetic. But then, he supposes he lost all dignity the day he headbutted Chrom for attention, anyway.

“I can’t kill you,” Chrom says. “I could never kill you.”

“The Falchion is right there,” Grima says.

He is not sure why he is protesting. He does not want Chrom to change his mind.

...But better now than later if he does.

“I could never kill you,” Chrom repeats, squeezing Grima in his arms.

Before Grima can start to purr again, Chrom releases him from his grip and stands.

Chrom grabs his sword, but does not unsheathe it. Instead, he places it on the bed, right in front of Grima.

“If you don’t believe me,” he says, “then here. You can hold onto it.”

“You…” Grima looks up at him, frowning. “You realize that you are powerless against me without this.”

“I am powerless against you WITH it,” Chrom says. “Do you not understand?”

“I… do…” Grima says, blinking hard as he meets Chrom’s eyes.

Of course he understands! He can’t even see straight around this man!

The Falchion rests before him. It is the only weapon that can threaten him.

Grima pushes it back towards Chrom.

… And right off the bed.

Tension hangs in the silence of the moment.

Then Chrom laughs.

“You said it better than I could,” he says, ignoring his fallen sword in favor of his fallen dragon.

“You actually do accept me like this…” Grima says, still a little incredulous, as Chrom embraces him once more.

“Of course,” Chrom says. “I told you… I love you as you are right now.”

“And I…” Grima says. “Also feel…”

Quickly, he presses a kiss to Chrom’s lips.

“Instinct,” he says before Chrom can react.

“I didn’t think cats…” Chrom pauses. “Ah… Okay.”

Grima spends the rest of the night purring.


	13. Chapter 13

Grima wakes up with Chrom’s arms around him. He smiles.

And he… doesn’t purr.

Grima raises a hand to his head to confirm what he has already realized… Nothing is there.

He removes himself from both Chrom’s arms and the blankets entangling the two of them. Dazedly, he stands, feeling power course through his veins.

This is his power. The power of the Fell Dragon. He can bring ruin anytime he wants, now. With a snap of his fingers, he could bring down the castle around him.

“R-Robin?” Chrom blinks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Are you…?”

“Chrom…” Grima grimaces. “... Hold me?”

And within seconds, Chrom is there, wrapping his arms around Grima.

“I could kill you,” Grima says. Shuddering, he presses his face into Chrom’s neck. “No… I could never kill you.”

Just like Chrom with the Falchion, all of Grima’s power would be worthless to him against Chrom.

“The curse is broken…” Chrom says.

“My power is back,” Grima says. “Though not my memories… yet.”

Now that he is not afflicted by the curse, perhaps magic can stimulate his mind. He longs to know more than just the written reflection of those times.

“You don’t look like a cat anymore.” Chrom chuckles lightly. “... How?”

“I don’t know,” Grima says. But he can speculate. “Perhaps stress was prolonging the curse. After all I have told you, I am… relieved.”

“Perhaps,” Chrom says. Even without feline appendages, the feeling of his hands smoothing Grima’s hair is nice. “Do you think… you could have been the one cursing yourself in the first place? After all, you wanted to forget…”

Grima frowns. He wanted to lose his memories of evil; it’s not the same. But…

“It would take a god to curse a god, is that the thought?” Grima sighs. “Maybe I could have… Maybe I knew what I would have done if I hadn’t been cursed.”

Ylisse would already be in shambles by now, no doubt. And isn’t that a miserable thought.

“The timing is right,” he continues. “For the curse to lift now… I can no longer consider the world’s destruction. It is still not a good place, but you… You make it better.”

“Ah, Grima…” Chrom says. “I suppose you do not remember, but… I once swore to you that we would create a peaceful world together. The world as we know it now clearly has far to go, but… Truly, I would spend my life making it better.”

“A peaceful world? I’d love to see it…” 

The concept seems impossible to Grima. Humans would have to lay down not just their arms but their fundamental way of life. Who would ever do that?

Well… Grima has now done that, has he not? So perhaps humanity is not entirely without a chance.

“I will be at your side,” Grima continues. “So show me how it is done.”

They have their work cut out for them, undoubtedly. Ylisse’s current fragile peace is in a precarious enough position, to speak nothing of the entire world. Grima almost wishes he still had cat features, if only for an excuse to bare his teeth at the Ylissean Council.

Yet despite the frustration, Grima slowly finds that things truly can change for the better.

“It seems we have an invitation,” Chrom says. “To the coronation of the new Plegian queen, Aversa…”

“She’s not a surprising choice,” Grima says. “As Validar’s heir, she has the experience necessary to lead. And as Validar’s victim, she’s certainly not going to lead them back to the hell they just came from.”

“Yes…” Chrom smiles at his husband. “After all these years, perhaps both of our nations can now heal from the wounds of the past.”

“I’d love to see it,” Grima says.

.  
.  
.

_To: The Dark One_

_You work quickly. I see you took my words about not wasting time to heart._

_To make a long story short, I have also taken my words to heart. I am writing to inform you that you need no longer fear my retribution. Indeed, loosen your tongue if you wish._

_You see, I no longer stand for despair. And no one will ever believe I once did._

_See you at the coronation._

_The High Deliverer_


End file.
